


When This Old Tired Body Wants to Sing

by KareliaSweet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (Not by the Mains), Angst, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Will, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, Homophobic Language, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6567535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fuck me quicker, darling,” he purrs with liquid insincerity, “God forbid you see my face.”</p><p>Will never touches him unless it is in the dark. In the daylight he is a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an expansion of a writing challenge long ago that can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5009071/chapters/12350882)

Hannibal cries out in the dark.

Will’s mouth is wrapped around him in filthy, efficient suction. The fine filaments of his eyelashes blink against Hannibal’s groin. He can feel every drop of saliva that trickles from Will’s mouth.

He’s become exceptionally good at this, honing his senses in recompense for the one that has been robbed from him. He pets a hand into Will’s hair, softer tonight having dried from a late evening shower. Stroking fingers through the curls and letting the ends slip through his fingers, he observes that it’s grown half an inch longer since the last time they did this.

Little grunts and slurps echo from Will’s throat, magnified in Hannibal’s ears. He tunes each sound as though it were pulled from a string, notes on a symphony ever-evolving in his mind. One of Will’s hands is clenched hard in the meat of Hannibal’s thigh. Hannibal pictures the skin gone white at the deepest pressure points, the faintest pink-crescented outlines from the dig of Will’s nails. He’ll examine the handiwork in the morning, like he always does. When Will is gone, again.

Will’s other hand is busy doing delicious things, two fingers currently burrowed to the second knuckle inside him, stretching and rubbing. Hannibal is writhing restlessly under the merciless opening of himself, keening with need to feel Will inside him once more but loathe to separate himself from the lush heat of Will’s mouth. Wetness trickles down the inside of his thighs, and he imagines for a fleeting second that perhaps somewhere in that dampness is a tear for him. Then Will’s fingers crook just right, he presses his tongue to the throbbing vein on the underside of Hannibal’s cock and everything else is forgotten. He gives one more ruthless suck and then Hannibal is snapping his hips, yelling himself hoarse as he shakes apart.

Will swallows once, twice, then he is up and forward, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and mounting Hannibal in one forceful thrust. Still caught in the last sticky throes of his orgasm, Hannibal pulses once more, cock weeping slick against Will’s stomach. Will catches one of Hannibal’s wrists blindly in the dark and holds it over his head, stretching him and bending to suck unforgiving bruises into his neck.

“Quickly,” Will says, half to himself, “sun’s almost up.”

Hannibal casts a blurry eye to the window, the thick velvet curtains barely rustling in the breeze. He installed them for this purpose, but beneath he can still see the faintest beginnings of a blue glow. They went much longer than usual tonight. He assumes Will has exhausted himself enough to sleep through the day, then his chests twists with a nasty pang as he realizes that was his intention all along.

A sliver of his older darkness, the deep-rooted curl of it that rotted inside him decades ago, peeks through, and his lips turn up in an unseen grimace.

“Fuck me quicker, darling,” he purrs with liquid insincerity, “God forbid you see my face.”

Will stills inside him, mouth currently held wet under his jaw. “Fuck you,” he murmurs, and pulls out.

He rolls over onto his back, the bed dipping with the transference of his weight. Hannibal turns on his side, reaches out to touch him, but Will flinches.

“Don’t,” he says, then takes himself in hand for a perfunctory and quick finish. Hannibal hears the obscene, slick sounds of it and feels ill.

“Will you come on me?” Hannibal asks, swallowing the flintier edges of his shame.

Will doesn’t answer, only grunts once, stifled, then his hand stops. He swings himself off the bed, distancing himself further before Hannibal can get a proper scent of his release. He knows full well how much Hannibal loves that smell.

Hannibal just lays quietly, in the silence and the dark, listening as Will pads to the bedroom door and opens it.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Will says, and shuts the door behind him.

Hannibal rubs his hands over his face, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard enough to see bright spots of colour.

Any light will do.

It had started innocently enough – as innocent as these things can be. Will had crawled into his bed after a night of redressing each other’s wounds, followed by a little too much whiskey to dull the pain. He had wiggled his way under Hannibal’s arm, lipping sloppy kisses under his jaw, hand working messy and uncoordinated under the sheets. When Hannibal had moved to turn on a bedside lamp, Will clasped his wrist.

“No,” he’d said, “I like it better this way.”

‘I like it better this way’ turned into ‘I like it _only_ this way’, and it became quickly apparent that the only way Hannibal could enjoy Will was under the cover of total darkness. It had seemed like an easy enough sacrifice at first, but the root of it began to gnaw at him until he saw it for what it was.

Will’s desire for Hannibal shamed him. How could he want to make love to the man who had ruined him? This was something ugly to him, something to be hidden, the only way to allow himself the pleasure he craved would be if it was never seen. But by the time Hannibal realized this, it was too late. He was already addicted to the press of Will inside him, to the wet heat of his mouth, the whispering reverence of his name spilled hot against his temple.

Will Graham became a drug, and like any drug, his need for it spoiled yet his cravings only grew. So he let his days drag on, spiraling downward into nights, until Hannibal’s only source of comfort became his only source of ruin.

 -x-

It all changes the day Will comes home drunk.

They’ve become so practiced at avoiding each other in the daylight hours that Hannibal doesn’t even notice his absence until Will swings through the front door, eyes unfocused and bloodshot.

“Hi, baby,” Will says, all soft edges to his consonants.

He sways, a little too off-kilter, and Hannibal catches him by the arm. Will steadies himself, breathing heavy and sour. A smile sits ill-fitting on his face, not quite at the right angle to be real. It’s uncouth and it’s ugly and God if Hannibal doesn’t still love him with every piece of his battered soul.

“Kiss me,” Will says.

There is nothing behind his eyes to indicate real desire, a vacancy in fact, but Hannibal still feels his heart hammer in his chest, especially when Will lifts a hand to stroke it in a very uncoordinated fashion down his cheek.

He’s never seen Will’s lips this close in the light. He wants to kiss them so terribly. He could, just now, and maybe Will would be too blitzed to rebuff him.

Hannibal recoils at the thought and he draws away, cold with revulsion.

“No,” he says. “Either you are here with me or you are not.”

Will gives him a murky glare and shuffles forward. “Come on,” he slurs.

Hannibal wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Go to bed, Will.”

Scoffing derisively, Will waves a hand in Hannibal’s direction and limps toward his room.

“You’ll change your mind,” he calls out, “y’always do.”

That evening, Hannibal does not.

He wakes early the next morning, and Will looks at him with surprise when he enters the kitchen to make himself coffee.

“Good… morning?” Will says uncertainly.

Hannibal grabs him by the waist and forces a kiss on him. Will freezes, reciprocates for a moment, and then pushes him away.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Wiping the corner of his mouth, Hannibal charges forward again, caging Will between his arms at the countertop. He does not bend to kiss him this time, just stares hard and unblinking.

Will bring his arms up to Hannibal’s chest, pressing without force.

“Hannibal,” he murmurs, “this isn’t what we do.”

His palms are warm and his thumbs are moving in light circles. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

Hannibal exhales jaggedly. “It’s not what _you_ do.”

He dips to kiss him again and Will turns his head, Hannibal’s mouth landing barely on his cheek. Hannibal’s fists clench in frustration and he thumps one hard on the counter.

“This is who I am, Will. A man who wants you in the light and the dark.”

Will opens his mouth to counter, but Hannibal bares his teeth, flashing danger in his eye for the first time in months.

“I will not be your fucking shadow,” he says, the coarseness of the expletive dragging fierce over his tongue. “You will accept me, or you will leave.”

Then it’s out there, and the moment he says it Hannibal knows he’s gone too far. The light dims from Will’s eyes and he removes his hands from Hannibal’s chest with a spasmodic twitch.

“Okay,” Will says, and Hannibal automatically releases him. He watches as Will treads silently towards his room, dread filling the pit of his stomach. He watches for long tortuous minutes, waiting for the closed door to open again. When it does, Will stands there with a suitcase in hand. They regard each other in silence, each hanging on a precipice of ultimatums they cannot back down from.

Will gives him a curt nod and walks out the door.

-x-

Two years pass.

Two years, four months and seventeen days.

He cares steadfastly and tirelessly for the dogs, even grows to love them a little, especially - to his surprise – the mottled Border collie with the perpetually floppy ear. Will had called him Flapjack but Hannibal starts calling him Guillaume. It takes him five weeks to consistently respond to the name change and Hannibal wonders if the dog might perhaps be doing so out of sympathy. He shakes the fanciful notion aside after Guillaume starts sleeping at the foot of the bed. Sympathy or no, the presence is alarmingly welcome, and he is familiar enough with superstitions to not look a gift horse in the mouth.

He does not search for Will, but he does scour the papers obsessively, tracking him through his usual avenues. He grows to loathe the garish masthead of TattleCrime, but he still checks it daily.

The first murder Hannibal tries to brush off as coincidence. It’s in Sicily, which is close enough but still, everywhere in Europe is close. The victim is six feet tall, 52 years old, with silvering chestnut hair. Many men meet that description, nothing unusual. He is found in his bed, heart removed from his chest and set on the pillow beside him, head turned to face it with glassy unseeing eyes. He is thought to have died between the hours of midnight and three a.m.

A footnote at the end of the article recounts that all the lights were on in the man’s home.

Hannibal stares at the grey and white lines of the man’s terrified face, the bloodstain beside him wide and black. He closes his laptop for the day and drinks half a bottle of whiskey that isn’t his.

That night, the phone rings.

It rings once, stops before Hannibal can even get to the phone to answer it, but he knows. Only one other person in the world knows the number.

He begins carrying the cordless phone with him, buys another charger to plug in at his bedside.

The second murder happens five months after the first – eight months in all since Will left him. This time in Portsmouth. Every detail is the same. The victim is – _was_ – a psychiatrist. Hannibal prints out the article and pins it to the fridge.

Soon after, the phone rings again. Hannibal picks it up before the first chime can finish sounding.

“Will?”

Silence hums at the other end of the line.

“Will.” His voice hitches pitifully and he doesn’t care.

One long, tired exhale. It is just a breath, but Hannibal knows the sound of Will’s breathing, the rhythm of it is tattooed into his lungs.

“I miss you,” Hannibal says, honest and plain.

There is a tiny sound then, something that lets itself spring unbidden from the back of Will’s throat. A soft little noise, barely heard, but it echoes in the cavity of Hannibal’s chest. It reverberates through him and he commits it to memory, closing his eyes and feeling it as though it were a fist wrapped around his heart.

“Will, please come home.”

The sharp inhale tells Hannibal he has spoken too much, and before he can say anything further there is a click, the crackle of static. He keeps his ear pressed to the receiver until the dial tone rings shrill in his ear. Guillaume cocks his floppy ear.

“Your father,” Hannibal tells him sadly, “says hello.”

Guillaume whines in sympathy and tucks his chin over Hannibal’s thigh. Hannibal rubs his head and stares hard at the ceiling, searching for shadows under the harsh lights he refuses to ever switch off.

Seven months later, Tattle Crime details the third murder in Leipzig. Having correctly assessed the pattern, Freddie coins the name “The Lights-On Killer”. It’s clunky, but it looks good on her merchandise. She also notes that all of the men were bachelors who lived a lifetime alone, which is when Hannibal realizes she knows exactly who she’s talking about. And who she’s talking to.

He pulls up a window to e-mail Ms. Lounds at least eight times but never follows through. Whatever information she may be withholding is not worth the risk of discovery. For now.

Almost two years to the day after Will’s disappearance, there is a fourth murder in Belarus. It follows Will’s modus operandi, but there’s something off about it. The man is short, barely five foot seven, balding and married. His wife is left behind, shaken but unharmed. Hannibal knows better than to write this one off as coincidence, but he cannot deciphers Will’s motivations behind it.

Not, he thinks forlornly, that he could have ever truly deciphered Will’s motivations.

He takes small comfort in the knowledge that Will is keeping to Europe with his activities, that perhaps it indicates an eventual return, although Hannibal knows that Will’s return to him could just as easily bring his death. On his more melancholy days, he decides that perhaps he wouldn’t mind.

The phone does not ring again.

-x-

Madeleine Auguste is a wretched woman. Sallow-skinned and pinch-faced, with a dizzying hatred for life that seems to fuel her very lifeblood. Hannibal watches her as she verbally eviscerates the proprietor of a very well regarded vegetable stand for selling her bad cauliflower. Her meek and weak-willed husband disappears into the background as he always does, making apologetic glances at the crowd. Clearly too fearful of finding himself on the receiving end of Madeleine’s sharp tongue.

Hannibal is certain that Gustave would most certainly be happier and healthier without her. He makes fleeting eye contact with the man, inclining his head in greeting, then directing his gaze toward Mme. Auguste with a tilt of his eyebrow. Gustave shrugs sadly, watching as she wags her finger violently in the vegetable stand owner’s face, who is remaining a face of implacable calm, mostly because he has learned over time to stand and weather the storms of her ridiculous outbursts.

The entire farmer’s market, Hannibal decides, would be happier and healthier without her.

He walks calmly toward the sneering woman and the vitriol that sprays from her mouth, noting but ignoring the panicked widening of Gustave’s eyes. In flawless French, Hannibal explains to her that he watched her purchase that very same cauliflower two months ago, remembers it distinctly because it was a beautiful specimen that he had his eye on _which she very well knew_. Her mouth curls unpleasantly but he soldiers on, adding that any fool who would let a cauliflower sit in the mouldy kitchen for weeks on end should know that it will undoubtedly go bad, and perhaps she should prepare her vegetables in a more timely fashion, rather than blaming her lack of culinary prowess on a reputable small business owner.

A chilling silence ripples over the small market stand and Madeleine’s parchment skin blooms a muddled red. Hannibal watches as one bony hand shakes tremulously against her thigh. If she slaps him right now, he will kill her where she stands.

She does not slap him. Instead, she spits on the ground by his feet, missing his shoes by a mere few centimeters.

“You think I care what a faggot thinks of me?” she says in a guttural accent. Gasps echo around the stands at the slur and her mouth twists in a parody of a smile. “You think I haven’t seen? Where is your ‘usband now, ah?”

She takes one step closer to Hannibal and points one long finger into his face. “I know what you are.”

Hannibal looks coolly at the finger, takes it gently between his thumb and pointer, and returns it to her side.

“Madame,” he replies, “you have no idea what I am.”

Madeleine’s eyes widen for a split-second, then she turns on her heel, throwing another curse over her shoulder as she goes. Gustave lets himself be dragged by the elbow, chin tucked to his chest.

“ _Va t'faire mètt, connard_ ” she yells, loud enough for the entire market to hear. Her husband shakes his head.

Hannibal quietly retrieves her address from the vegetable vendor and drives to her house that night. He watches through her grimy front window as she yells at her husband, watches as he stands stoically and just lets it wash over him.

Then, something unexpected happens. In the middle of what looks like a nasty tirade, Gustave crosses into the line of fire and puts his arms around her. Madeleine struggles, beating his chest and squirming unpleasantly, but then, quite suddenly, she begins to cry. Hannibal watches in confused disbelief as Gustave sinks to the floor, stroking his wife’s hair as she sobs against him. Through the smudged glass Hannibal sees him mouth the words ‘ _Je t’aime_ ’. Madeleine hits him impotently in response, then her arms tighten around his neck and she weeps. Her husband kisses the top of her head and rocks her silently.

Hannibal tears up the recipe for miso-braised flank with roasted cauliflower and returns home. He removes the tarpaulin lining from the trunk of his car, zips his plastic suit back into its garment bag, and repurposes the vegetables for a stew.

He cries alone in his bed for the first time since Will left him. Guillaume whimpers at his side.

The next day he opens up his laptop and sends an e-mail.

 

_to: freddie.lounds@tattlecrime.com_

_from: seachill@ymail.fr_

_subject: An Inquiry_

_Dear Miss. Lounds,_

_Any information you may possess in regards to the whereabouts of the Lights-On Killer would be greatly appreciated._

_Sincerely,_

_A Devoted Fan_

 

_to: seachill@ymail.fr_

_from: freddie.lounds@tattlecrime.com_

_subject: RE: An Inquiry_

_Dear Fan,_

_As a reader of Tattle Crime, you should know that I never reveal my sources. It’s terribly rude of you to ask._

_Freddie Lounds_

 

_to: freddie.lounds@tattlecrime.com_

_from: seachill@ymail.fr_

_subject: RE: RE: An Inquiry_

_Miss Lounds,_

_What do you want?_

_\- F._

_to: seachill@ymail.fr_

_from: freddie.lounds@tattlecrime.com_

_subject: Your Anagrams Suck, Achilles_

_F,_

_A picture._

_F._

 

Three hours after a grainy picture of Hannibal Lecter in an undetermined location surfaces on the front page of Tattle Crime, he receives another e-mail.

 

_from: winstondad@hotmail.com_

_to: seachill@ymail.fr_

_subject: ?_

_What the fuck are you doing?_

_from: seachill@ymail.fr_

_to: winstondad@hotmail.com_

_subject: RE: ?_

_What I had to. Come back to me._

_from: winstondad@hotmail.com_

_to: seachill@ymail.fr_

_subject: RE: RE: ?_

_I can’t._

 

Hannibal responds with the only card he has left in his arsenal, past caring that it weakens him to do so.

 

_from: seachill@ymail.fr_

_to: winstondad@hotmail.com_

_subject: RE: RE: ?_

_I love you._

 

There is no further response, and Hannibal goes to sleep with whiskey in his throat and dread in his heart.

The next morning, Hannibal comes downstairs to find Will standing in their kitchen.

“So,” Hannibal says, “have you come to kiss me or kill me?”

Will blinks once, reaches out with his free hand, and turns on the light.

“Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To his credit, Hannibal does not fall to his knees in prostration. It is early enough that the light hasn’t quite filtered through the bay windows, and Will has shrouded himself in as much shadow as possible, but Hannibal can still see the gleaming blade of silver gripped in Will’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for such lovely feedback so soon! Hope the payoff was worth it :)

To his credit, Hannibal does not fall to his knees in prostration. It is early enough that the light hasn’t quite filtered through the bay windows, and Will has shrouded himself in as much shadow as possible, but Hannibal can still see the gleaming blade of silver gripped in Will’s hand. Hannibal thinks wistfully of easier times when the knife was in his hand and he knew exactly who was going to be hurt and how.

As Will advances, Hannibal is unsure of what will meet his flesh first, mouth or metal. He remains unconvinced even as Will’s kiss crushes into him, lips as angry and unforgiving as the blade. It is when Will whimpers, making _that sound_ \- the sound that Hannibal had carried within him like a talisman for unending aching nights - that Hannibal crumbles. He tugs Will into his arms and a broken cry rips free from his throat, equal parts gratitude and devastation.

In the distance, from what seems like miles away, the knife clatters to the ground as Will lets go.

Will clutches to him with the earnestness of one who might weep, but no tears fall. Neither does he apologize, but Hannibal imagines he can hear it all the same.

“Come,” Hannibal says as he tries to break their embrace, “let me see you.”

Will shudders and grips him tighter, his fingers digging so hard that they begin to shake.

“No,” he croaks, “I can’t.”

Dry lips stamp their outline down his throat and over his collarbone and for a moment Hannibal lets him continue, stroking through the overgrowth of his untamed curls.

“Will,” he says, firm but gentle.

Will presses his forehead into the solid mass of Hannibal’s breastbone and begins to release his rigid grip, a finger uncurling on each long exhale. Hannibal allows him to take his time, standing patiently as he waits for Will to step back and meet his eyes.

When he does, after five minutes or fifty, neither have a proper grasp of time right now, his eyes reveal hollow, sunken shadows. He tries to smile but gets no further than an echo of a rictus grin, unnatural and skeletal.

“Hi,” he offers feebly.

Even now, clearly malnourished, hair unwashed and uncombed, a wild thing brought back from the wood, he is so beautifully and unabashedly _Will_ that Hannibal’s heart is fit to burst at the sight of him.

So wondrous it aches. So loved that it pains him down to his bones.

And here, here in the _light_ , he stands before him unflinching, letting himself be seen and kissed, because of course Hannibal is already kissing him again, he doesn’t know how not to, now that by some unknown grace of fortune he can. They gasp in gulps of air as they drink each other in, and now Hannibal is the one clutching desperately, his grip as fierce as his kisses.

Will tries to speak, but he can do little more than hitch and hiccup, so Hannibal just lets the waves of his love crash over and into him, unrelenting and demanding. It batters the shattered edges of Will’s heart until it is smooth as glass, shining in the light, a precious thing held safely for them both.

“Will,” Hannibal exclaims, that one word the entire source of his knowledge, the universe shrunk down to four letters.

“Hannibal,” Will replies in turn, leaning heavy on the word as though he would fall without it.

In truth, he has fallen with and without it, continues falling all the same.

They shift apart again to breathe, to continue mending the thousand cuts between them. Hannibal drags a thumb over Will’s slightly sunken cheekbone. Will spreads his fingers over the bend of Hannibal’s wrist, pulls it to his mouth and kisses his pulse.

“I murdered three men because they looked too much like you,” he confesses, “and one more because he didn’t.”

“Ah,” Hannibal says, “I wondered about Belarus.”

“It felt wrong,” Will sighs, then waves a hand at Hannibal’s arched brow, “not the killing part.”

He noses at the crease of Hannibal’s growing smile. “Killing _without you_. It was all hollow, meaningless.” Will drops Hannibal’s wrist and scrapes a hand across his face. “It felt like I was carving out my own heart.”

He reaches for Hannibal’s heart, then, splays his fingers over his chest and pushes his palm flat.

“What was it like for you?”

Hannibal shrugs almost imperceptibly. “I wouldn’t know.”

Will frowns and Hannibal looks down at him from beneath hooded, fragile eyes. “I haven’t killed a soul since you left.”

Puffing out a disbelieving breath, Will tries to laugh. “Bullshit,” he says, but it comes out shaken and fearful. Hannibal placidly shakes his head and Will shoves a hand into the thicket of his hair. This, it seems, is too much to process. He takes a step away, then back, winding himself into a circle before looking up at Hannibal with a challenging eyebrow.

“You knew I’d come back?”

“Not at all,” Hannibal replies softly. He reaches for Will’s hand to clasp between his own. “I have long since ceased trying to determine the workings of your mind. But I hoped. Perhaps not so foolishly,” he adds, kissing Will’s fingertips.

Will bends his head, tucking it under Hannibal’s chin. The mess of his curls feels unbearably soft and Hannibal sighs, so close to being complete again.

Will admits, “I wanted to come back as soon as I left.”

“I wouldn’t have let you.”

Will smiles fondly over his throat, gives it a little nip. “Liar.”

Hannibal marvels at how this playfulness that had been so long denied him comes so easily to Will now. It seems cruelly unfair and it rubs a heating friction in his chest. Sparks spit between his ribs and he clenches his jaw, biting on the curse that sits between his teeth. Will feels the hard lines of tension forming beneath him and looks up with an almost pious curiosity. Hannibal’s face twitches minutely and he hears Will’s breath catch in his throat.

Now that the full tide of his sorrow has receded, the cold anger once kept at bay begins to seep out. That he had been left so ignominiously by one he so adored, that Will would dare to descend upon his doorstep and presume nothing had changed. Everything has changed. The thought sings hot through him, flushing him with rage and desire both.

“Hannibal?” Will asks hesitantly.

Teeth bared, Hannibal twitches out another snarl, laying one hand to rest in warning at Will’s collarbone.

“I have been angry with you for so long.”

Will’s pupils blow wide and inky black. He licks his lips hungrily.

“Show me.”

-x-

The walk upstairs seems to stretch for miles. Will lets himself be led by the hand and Hannibal can feel the skip in his pulse. When he turns over his shoulder, Will’s eyes are downcast and subservient. Hannibal can feel his cock thickening at the sight.

“What changed your mind, in the end?” he asks a little too lightly.

They reach the top of the stairs and Will stands before him, looking up from under thick lashes, hands clasped in penitence. Hannibal grips him under the chin and forces their eyes to meet. Will’s breath stutters.

“I asked you a question,” Hannibal says coolly. His fingers squeeze on just the right side of pain and he’s rewarded with a whimper.

“I missed you,” Will replies, a slight tremor to his voice.

Hannibal narrows his eyes. “Follow me.”

Will follows him into the master bedroom without question, and they stand at the foot of the bed for a long moment, just staring.

“Do you see me now?” Hannibal says with a flash of teeth. Will nods.

“And do you want me?”

Will’s brow creases in the smallest of frowns, bewilderment flickering. “Always,” he replies, voice clear. “I always wanted you. Hannibal.”

He reaches out to run his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, and Hannibal lets himself preen into the touch. “Kiss me,” he whispers, and Will does. First feathering kisses along his jaw, a nibble at his chin, then a teasing bite over his throat before his lips move smooth and soft from cheekbone to mouth, sucking each of Hannibal’s lips between his own. Will’s tongue slides against his, wet and gentle, asking rather than demanding. Moaning as he lets himself be tasted, Hannibal grabs the back of Will’s head and brings him closer, dialing up the fierceness of their kiss and biting at him with sharp teeth.

“Open your eyes,” he growls, and Will obeys, his gaze dark as sapphire and pooled with lust. Hannibal kisses him again deeply, looking deeper still, and he shivers full-bodied when Will does not look away. Then he tears himself away with a violent shove, chest heaving. Will looks halfway to wrecked and dizzied with it. Hannibal smiles ferally and drinks him in.

“Strip.”

Will aims for teasing as he unbuttons his shirt, but Hannibal just shakes his head. He hasn’t the time for this, and Will nods hurriedly, losing all finesse as he flings each item of clothing away. When Will stands naked before him, Hannibal reaches with one arm and spins him around so that they are pressed together, Will’s back to his chest. Then he walks them bothtowards the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

“Look,” he instructs. He watches Will watch himself, flushed with arousal, cock heavy and hard between his thighs. Hannibal slides one hand around and up Will’s chest, thumb spread wide to cup his throat. Will swallows thickly and Hannibal feels the bob of his Adam’s apple against his palm.

“ _See_ what I do to you,” Hannibal purrs into his ear. His other hand moves lower, down Will’s abdomen to the coarse thatch of curls beneath. Biting the shell of Will’s ear, he trails his fingers lazily around the base of Will’s cock. A clear bead of liquid pushes from the head and slowly trickles down. Hannibal wipes it away with his thumb and brings it to Will’s lips.

“ _Taste_ what I do to you.”

Will obediently licks it away and lets Hannibal push his thumb inside his mouth, rubbing his tongue, feeling the outline of his teeth.

“How many times have you had my cock in your mouth, Will?”

Eyes wide, Will shakes his head around the mouthful. Too many to count, they both know it. But always in the dark. Hannibal can feel the rush of saliva pooling around his thumb in preparation and he chuckles darkly.

“No, not just yet,” he says, “I have another question.”

Releasing his thumb from Will’s mouth, he reaches between them to push down the elastic waist band of his pants, freeing his cock. He rubs the tip of it over the cleft of Will’s ass, watches the first tendrils of realization creep over him and spread goosebumps in their wake.

“How many times,” Hannibal asks, “have you had my cock inside you?”

Will is fighting to keep his eyes open, drunk and half-lidded with lust as they are, but he meets Hannibal’s piercing gaze as he answers.

“Never.” His voice is gravelly and thick. Hannibal presses himself closer.

“I’m going to fuck you, Will. Hard. And you’re going to watch.”

Will can’t help himself, his head lolls back against Hannibal’s shoulder and he moans, one hand groping backwards towards Hannibal’s hip.

“Yes,” he hisses, “please.”

Hannibal fists a hand into Will’s hair and jerks his head forward.

“I said _watch_. Is that understood?”

Will swivels his neck so that their lips brush together. “Yes,” he replies, gaze fixed on the bow of Hannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal sets his hand at the small of Will’s back and gives him a little push. “Hands and knees,” he instructs, and Will goes down immediately. Sweat is already pooling at his temples, matting his hair and painting a rosy glow on his cheeks. Hannibal peels off his shirt, eyes never leaving him for a second. He pushes down his pants and kicks them away, taking himself in hand and giving his cock a few tugs. He’s leaking enough that it trails across his knuckles and he holds his fingers out to Will, who noisily sucks.

“Good boy.”

Will actually whines.

“I still haven’t decided whether or not I’ll let you come,” Hannibal says conversationally as he retrieves the lube from the bedside table. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Will shiver. He crosses to the window and throws open the heavy curtains, light streaming in and bathing them both in a buttery glow.

“If you look away for a second,” he warns. “I will punish you. You are here with _me_. You will say _my name_.”

Will meets Hannibal’s reflection heavy-lidded in the mirror. “Hannibal,” he says, every syllable stretched like taffy and just as sweet. Hannibal swallows the sudden lump in his throat, pushes away the weight in his chest, and kicks Will’s thighs further apart.

He crouches over him and rubs a large palm over the soft curve of Will’s ass, letting his thumb dip between his cheeks. Though Will is smaller in frame since Hannibal saw him last, he is still wiry and compactly muscled. His bones are a little more pronounced than he would like though, and he bends to kiss the knobby outline of Will’s spine, licking the notches between.

Will huffs unsteadily, fingers flexing into the carpet. “I thought I was being punished here.”

Stroking long fingers under the swell of Will’s ass, Hannibal tuts. “Not yet.” He rears his hand back and spanks him, hard, leaving a candy apple-red imprint behind. Will bites into his lip and a tiny trickle of blood blooms out. Hannibal physically restrains himself from flipping Will over to lick it away.

Instead, he unscrew the top from the lube and pours a generous amount into his hand, warming it between his fingers. Then he parts the globes of Will’s ass and pushes the tip of one thick finger inside him. Will hisses between his teeth at the stretch, squinting as much as he can while he keeps his eyes focused. Hannibal bends down to fix his teeth over the fading imprint of his hand, nipping the meat of Will’s ass as he works his finger deeper.

He takes less time than he should before he adds another, knowing it will sting just enough for Will to feel it but not so much as to take away his pleasure. He keeps himself well lubricated as he goes, and when he crooks two fingers knuckle deep, just the ghost of a touch and gone, Will quivers.

“I want you to feel me inside you long after I’ve filled you,” Hannibal says, scissoring his fingers almost cruelly as Will’s mouth twitches. A quick glance between his thighs shows that he’s still hard, though not fully, and he gives a glancing rub over Will’s prostate just to see his cock jerk, thickening again nicely.

Will’s breath is ribboning out of him, shoulder blades jutting as he holds himself up. His cock bobs against his stomach when Hannibal pulls his fingers out, a thick _yes_ tumbling from his lips in anticipation. Smiling wickedly with his eyes and the barest quirk of his lip, Hannibal slicks himself and lines up at Will’s entrance, hair tumbling loose over his forehead. Their eyes lock together and Will nods.

One hand steadying Will’s hip, Hannibal guides himself in. The low groan that rumbles in both their chests matches in pitch and frequency. Will is staring so intensely at him he thinks he might black out from it. His jaw hung open, pink and wet, nostrils flared as he bears down on Hannibal’s cock. His eyes are sharp cut-glass jewels that train on him like a hawk. Hannibal shudders and ducks his head, escaping for just a moment, but Will reaches back with a wild hand and grabs at him.

“No,” Will grits, one sticky palm smacking against Hannibal’s flank. “You stay with me too.”

Hannibal wants to scold him for his impudence, but he can’t, he can only obey, eyes fixed back on the reflective gaze that bores into him, filling him up to the brim and forcing him to see _everything_. He rears back, withdrawing almost completely, and then slams back in. Will coughs as the air is knocked out of him then shakes his head. “Again,” he says.

Hannibal obliges, fucking into him in rough and savage thrusts, Will’s knuckles turning white as they twist for purchase in the carpet. He meets Hannibal with as much returning force as he can, with as little practice in this configuration as he has, and Hannibal watches with pride as his erection juts proud and unflagging between his legs. His eyes travel between Will’s and his own reflection as he watches himself claim what is his. It is perfect, _too_ perfect and it pains him deep in his chest, a ravaging ache that stabs deeper with each stab of his cock.

“Two years,” he chokes out. “Two years, four months and--”

“Seventeen days,” Will finishes for him, his voice cracking. His eyes are soft and wet in the mirror. “Seventeen, I – _ah –_ fuck, I missed you for all of it, Hannibal.”

The world is suddenly frozen in time as shards of golden light sweep over Will’s face.

“Hannibal,” he says again, “I’m sorry.”

Will’s apology splits him open, blunting the sharp pieces of his broken heart and melting it into something light as air. Hannibal halts his thrusts and scoops his arms under Will’s shoulders, repositioning them so that Will sits in his lap, skin to skin, as forcibly close as he can keep him. He enters him again, delighting in the pleased noises Will makes as he opens himself even more. Will rolls his hips languidly, moving himself on Hannibal’s cock with a new gentleness, all anger between them spent and fizzing far away.

Reaching behind, Will wraps one arm around Hannibal’s neck and turns to smear a haphazard kiss between his neck and jaw. “I’m sorry,” he says again, his eyes yearning and utterly sincere and it is entirely too much. A great pressing tension swells under Hannibal’s ribs and he flinches with the strain of holding it down. He spreads a hand over Will’s stomach, fingers splayed, swallowing the knot in his throat that refuses to budge. Will just keeps moving like a wave, watching their joined reflection in awe. One creature of silken limbs and touches interlacing, overlapping. No part belonging to a single being, everything a blur.

“Look at us,” Will whispers, fingers trailing along Hannibal’s arm. He links their fingers together and his face crinkles in disbelief. “Look at _me_.”

Hannibal could hardly look at anything else. Will, his Will, being slowly taken apart and rebuilt, voice ragged and honey-wild. The light shines from the window and catches on his face, illuminating the silver tracks of his tears into gold. Will brings a hand to his mouth, kiss-stung and red, then to the wetness on his cheeks.

“This is what you refused to see,” Hannibal says, though his voice is barely a voice.

He moves the hand on Will’s stomach up to cup his throat, ever so reverently, presenting Will before himself in all his glory. “See?”

Will stops moving, seats himself to the hilt and gasps. His eyes flutter at the sweet pressure inside him before springing open again. He looks at Hannibal, completely naked in every way he can be, and smiles.

“I’m beautiful,” he whispers, and turns to kiss him.

Hannibal consumes him slowly, licking into the salt-wet warmth of his mouth and sucking on his tongue as Will moans throatily around him. Hannibal pets at the side of his face, fingertips trailing under the swell of his lip. Then Will pulls himself off Hannibal entirely and swivels to face him head-on, legs wrapped around his waist.

“No more mirrors,” he says, “please?”

He sinks down onto Hannibal’s cock, throwing his head back in raw ecstasy as he does. Hannibal grabs at the small of his back and lays him back to the floor, blanketing him and sheathing himself entirely.

Will is trembling now, eyes bloodshot from strain and still leaking tears. More still drip on him from above, and Hannibal brusquely wipes his own away.

“You are beautiful,” he breathes, dipping to kiss Will anew. Will’s hands sink into his hair, limbs clinging around his shoulders and hips. Hannibal moves within him in circling thrusts, quiet and peaceful. It’s so gentle it hurts.

“You know what brought me home,” Will shudders, cock weeping against Hannibal’s stomach.

Hannibal turns to wipe his cheek on his shoulder. He knows. Of course he knows.

“Say it,” Will begs, grabbing at him desperately. He snarls once, a flash of the feral creature that let himself be snared. “Show me why I came back.”

Hannibal bares his teeth in return, hand wrapping at the base of Will’s neck. His hips snap up in tempo, harder than Will was prepared for and it pulls a startled cry out of him.

“I love you,” Hannibal says, and that unspools Will completely. He comes with a suddenness that sends him arching, splashing his release in thick pulses between them.

“Christ,” he says, shocked and stunned by the force of his orgasm. He pulls Hannibal’s mouth down to his own, kissing him with such ferocity that it’s more like biting. With one hand he grabs Hannibal’s ass and pulls him deep as he can go, rolling a guttural groan out of him.

There nothing left to hide behind, but Will makes sure Hannibal can see the crystal blue of his eyes when he says the same words in return. Hannibal comes immediately, already stretched to the very edges of his control, and he keens loud and high with something awfully close to sorrow singing in his veins.

He realizes, in the aftershock, that it is joy.

-x-

Much, much later, they make it to the bed, embracing under the cool breeze that wafts through the window. Hannibal wets a damp cloth in the bathroom and brings it to tend to Will as he had always wished to. Will preens under it, then takes the cloth from him, rewetting it before returning the favour with a sweet awkwardness. Hannibal can’t stop tracing the flush on Will’s cheeks and his own ache from smiling so wide.

“I’ve never seen you smile like this,” Will observes, “it’s a little terrifying.”

“You’ve never seen many things,” Hannibal counters, but the venom has been thoroughly sucked from his tone, spat away forgotten.

Will curls himself into Hannibal’s side as he did that first time so long ago, only now his eyes shine under the caress of unfiltered light.

“How many more men would you have killed?” Hannibal asks, tracing Will’s face with the backs of his knuckles. Will kisses them absently before settling to the pillows.

“Just one,” he answers honestly, cocking an eyebrow.

 Hannibal looks at him in bemusement. “I suppose I should be glad I sent that e-mail, then.”

“Eh,” Will shrugs, “it was still fifty-fifty.”

Then he bursts into peals of laughter at Hannibal’s scowl, relinquishing as Hannibal flips and pins him to the bed beneath.

“Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that you escaped the worst of your punishment.”

He curls a hand around Will’s wrist, pressing down to feel the wild flutter of his pulse. Will just smiles back at him.

“I dunno,” he teases, “the rest of my life with you? I think that’s punishment enough.”

It’s a playful ribbing, but the truth behind it spreads golden warmth through Hannibal’s chest. He kisses Will once, twice, then loses count as he loses himself entirely; joyful and completely seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As posted on [tumblr](http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com/):  
> Me: *writing porn*  
> Hannibal: *starts crying*  
> Me: Aw, seriously, Hannibal, again? We decided you were were having rough sex in this fic.  
> Hannibal: *weeping* I tried.  
> Me: ….  
> Me: Do you need a hug?  
> Hannibal: *sniffle*… yeah.  
> Will: *appears with blankets and Kleenex* C’m’ere.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to moku-youbi for helping me come up with Hannibal's stupid e-mail address.
> 
> tumble with me at [lovecrimevariations](http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com).


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